by Philip Brady
What am I?
A computer to think,
An engine to go,
A windmill to trap
And convert C 2 0.
An incinerator designed
With its own gastric tract,
A renal distillery
Its regatta to enact.
Muscles so strong
Must do what they’re told,
A skeletal frame
Their strength to withhold.
A cosmetic skin
To disguise the whole lot
Where it’s all tied together
With an umbilical knot.
I’m looking at mirrors
And sanitized stands,
And a clock that’s indifferent
To the time on its hands,
But deep in recesses
Where mysteries unfold
I am thinking the thoughts
That belong to the soul.
